since 1871

Title: take care, take care, take careSeries: Trust and ConsequencesFandom: Teen WolfRating: NC-17Pairings/Characters: Derek/Stiles Content Advisory: Stiles is 17, eventually D/s elements to their relationship.Notes: Title is taken from an Explosions in the Sky song.

Summary: Derek takes care of Stiles as much as he can.

*

Stiles has been looking pale lately.

Derek may not be the alpha of their patchwork pack anymore, but he's pretty sure that he's a member in good standing by now (Stiles is definitely in the pack; he made himself a 'Vice President' badge and everything). Derek thinks it might be okay if he treats Stiles the way he’d treated pack growing up.

Derek was never meant to be an alpha, but alphas were also never supposed to have to work alone. Packs support each other, and Derek had always loved being helpful. After the fire, when it was just their pack of traumatized two, Laura had teased him about it. She called him Mother Hen, but she’d liked it when he had did their laundry, or had dinner ready at the end of a long day, or the times he’d bought her ice cream after bad break-ups and watched action films with her until she fell asleep.

Lately, the Beacon Hills pack meetings have mostly become excuses to check in on each other and hang out. Derek never quite knows what to do with himself once the “Is there new evil? No? Cool,” part of the night concludes, but he always attends. He tries to get better at small talk, and laughing, and making casual physical contact.

One night, when Stiles looks extra pale and is a little too quiet, Derek figures, what the hell; maybe the kid could use a little Mother Henning.

Derek waits until most of the team's on their way from the Stilinskis' kitchen to the living room to start up Batman Begins before grabbing something from the fruit bowl and throwing it at Stiles.

"You look like a skeleton. Eat a damn banana."

Stiles manages to accidentally juggle it about four times before dropping it on the floor. He picks it up and eats it though, peeling it from the bottom and using the stem as a handle while rambling to Derek about lifehacks and monkey intelligence.

*

Stiles starts to use Derek's loft as Research Central (which is capitalized, which Derek knows, because he's included in all-pack text message threads now that are so long he had to switch to an unlimited texting plan).

"Why are you here?" Derek finally asks him, the third time he finds an empty Red Bull can in his trash can, and has to fish it out to move it to the recycling bin. "Don't you have a home? Aren't there libraries in this town that come with books of their very own? Or cafes that provide caffeine that’s slightly less…” He looks at the can of Red Bull. “Toxic?”

"All of those places tend to frown on me mumbling out loud while I read about mermen and demonic trees and succubi. Plus, it's quiet here. Very zen."

Stiles glares before heaving a sigh and closing up his book. "It's fine, I'll go. Cool Beans cafe has half-off mochas after seven, so I’ll head down that way."

"No--you don't have to leave, I was just..."

"Oh. Marking your metaphorical territory? Allowing me access, but making sure I know there are No Trespassing signs?"

Derek had just been wondering why Stiles hung out at his place, given that Stiles doesn't like him very much. "Stay."

Stiles sits back down and opens his book back up. "Fine, bossypants."

*

Derek takes care of Stiles as much as he can.

Stiles doesn't seem to notice.

He eats what Derek puts in front of him, or next to him, or throws at his face. He wanders out of the apartment when Derek tells him to leave, trailing the smell of fatigue and half-thought out rambles about demons and location spells and gluten-free muffins.

Derek wonders for a while if Stiles listens to him because he's worried that Derek's going to start slamming him into walls again, or if it's some weird leftover response-to-an-alpha thing, but Stiles doesn’t seem afraid. He argues with Derek, complains, whines, and makes a general nuisance of himself, but eventually he always ends up doing what Derek asks him to do.

Derek takes advantage of it, because Stiles needs to be taken care of.

*

When he kisses Stiles, he has no excuse. He's not trying to be helpful. Stiles's research is not going to be assisted by the addition of Derek's tongue. It's not because Stiles looks tired or worried or thin and Derek thinks that kissing him will help. He just looks...like Stiles.

They're both sitting on Derek's bed, which they do a lot, because it's basically the only comfortable piece of furniture in the loft, and they can go for hours once they start reading. Stiles dog-ears his pages whenever something triggers a ramble and he feels the need to lecture Derek. His rants about his English class or the footnotes in the Bestiary can go on forever. Derek's always been taught to value books, so the little folds at the corners of the pages irritate him more than the interruptions.

Derek puts his hand over Stiles's when he's about to dog-ear the copy of Grapes of Wrath that had belonged to Cora. Stiles's fingers are long, and graceful, and go still immediately under Derek's touch. Stiles doesn't move. He just stares at Derek. At Derek's mouth, actually, so--so--

God, he has no excuse, and he should know better, he does know better, but he takes the book from Stiles's hands, leans over, and presses their mouths together, because he wants to.

Stiles doesn't move, for long enough that Derek starts to worry that he's really fucked things up, but then Stiles shifts his head a little, leaning to the left, and Derek rewards him by bringing a hand up to the side of Stiles's face. Stiles's cheek is soft under his palm, and his lips open hesitantly when Derek traces the edge of his jaw.

When Derek pulls back, Stiles is breathless. "This is--this is--" Derek moves his hand along the side of Stiles's head. His hair is soft. "I've fallen asleep and you're a Steinbeckian-inspired daydream. Wet dream."

Derek pinches the skin on Stiles's neck, right below his ear, and Stiles's pupils expand right along with his sharp inhale. "There. Now you know you're not dreaming."

Stiles's mouth works for a while, half-formed words and questions and sometimes just silence coming out. Derek watches until it stops being funny, and then he kisses Stiles again. He nips at Stiles's lower lip, and Stiles full-on moans, which gets Derek hard faster than anything ever has before.

"I want to make out with you," he says, aware that his voice is basically a growl, but unable to smooth it out. "Just for a little while. Keeping all clothes on." Stiles is a teenager, and a virgin (and hadn't that been a fun, death-related conversation when the evil druid rituals had come around?). Derek doesn't want to pressure him into doing anything he doesn't want to do. "No repercussions, no strings attached, and you can stop anytime you want to. How does that sound?"

Cora's copy of Steinbeck, which Derek had been so worried about, goes flying over the edge of the bed. In exchange, Derek gets a lapful of Stiles. "Shit, fuck, yes," Stiles says, his hands grabbing at Derek's henley. "Dude, yes, consent given, make out with me please."

Stiles is inexperienced and over-eager, pressing his mouth against Derek's like he's trying to crash cymbals together. Derek puts up with it for a bit, because it's still nice, and the teases of tongue he gets make him want to growl, but eventually he takes control.

He lays a hand on Stiles's lower back and one between his shoulders and flips them over, pinning Stiles beneath him. Stiles spreads his legs to make room for Derek like it's the natural thing for him to do. Derek ruts forward on instinct, and when he growls with satisfaction, Stiles just...relaxes. He says, "Do whatever you want," and looks up at Derek. Derek--who's not used to people looking at him without fear, anger, or suspicion in their eyes--doesn't know what to do.

Stiles feels fragile beneath him, between his arms, the lines of their torsos shifting with every breath.

"Don't make promises you're not ready to keep," Derek says, looking at the stretch of skin on Stiles's neck that he'd pinched, pink and tender.

"I'm--I'm pretty sure that whatever you want to do--"

Stiles has no idea what he's talking about (seventeen, seventeen and virgin hungry), so Derek kisses him to stop him from making a mistake; promises he'd feel obligated to keep.

Stiles's hair has grown long enough that Derek can fist a hand in it and pull Stiles's head back. Stiles gasps when Derek pulls it, grinding his hips up against Derek's, and arches his neck even further back, which, god, yes.

Derek bites Stiles's lips, licks at his teeth, laughs when Stiles squirms against his grip (and then groans when he smells the spike in arousal, because apparently Stiles likes it when Derek pulls his hair and laughs).

He kisses and licks a line down Stiles's neck, careful not to leave marks. (He doesn't want this to follow Stiles back home, or into his school, or out of Derek's bed; not if Stiles doesn't want it to.) It's hard to stop himself when he gets to the neck of Stiles's t-shirt, which had gotten pulled down when Derek manhandled him onto his back. The thin fabric’s stretched over a swath of pale skin that begs with every shaky breath that Stiles takes for Derek to mark it.

"Can I," Stiles says, gulping, "can I--" He rocks his hips up hesitantly, the line of his cock hard through his jeans, and Derek says, "Do it," before he can think it through.

Stiles makes a strangled sound and his hands dig into Derek's shoulder blades. His fingers are tense and it hurts a little, hurts good, and he holds on tighter when Derek makes his way back up to Stiles's mouth, pulls his hair again, and fucks Stiles's mouth with his tongue.

Stiles is making sharp, hurt noises with every trembling thrust of his hips, and Derek's eyes flash bright when he moves his hands down Stiles's sides, over his ribs, his hipbones, until he has his hands wrapped tight around the firm cheek of Stiles's ass.

He sets the pace after that, and Stiles's eyes glaze over. He doesn't fight or complain, he doesn't even help--he just mewls when Derek pushes his own hips down, pulling Stiles's body up, grinding them together like he wants to make it hurt.

"Are you going to come for me?" Derek asks, when Stiles's lips are bitten red and swollen and there's sweat darkening the edges of his hair.

Stiles looks up at him, his eyes focusing again, and asks, "Can I?" He sounds surprised, like he hadn't thought it would be allowed.

"I want you to make a mess of yourself," Derek says, moving one hand back Stiles’s hair so he can yank his head to the right and growl into his ear. "I want you to come in your pants for me. I want you to say my name when you come, and I want you to do it right now." He bites Stiles's ear, because a mark there probably won't be noticed, and he wants his breath, his voice, to be the only thing filling Stiles's mind when he comes.

Stiles writhes under him, making Derek fight to hold onto him for the first time, Stiles's legs digging into the mattress before wrapping around Derek's hips. Stiles comes like that, a strangled cry escaping his mouth as his hips work in little circles, pressing so hard against Derek that he can feel the line of Stiles's zipper, feel his cock jerking with every pulse.

"Derek," Stiles moans, the syllables stretched so long that he barely recognizes his own name.

He can smell Stiles's come. He jerks his own hips down hard (he's not close to coming, but he wants to know what it would feel like to get himself off against Stiles's body; he wants to know what Stiles would do) and Stiles's fingers stop digging into his back and instead move to pull Derek's mouth back to his.

He squeezes Stiles's ass so tight that he knows it will bruise, he bites Stiles's lip with teeth that are threatening to become fangs, and he doesn't say Mine even when Stiles's whole body tightens in a long, curved arch, trapped under the weight of Derek's torso.

When Stiles starts to come down, Derek strokes his hair and kisses his neck. Stiles's body goes boneless under his, and Derek hums with contentment. He's still hard, but he feels satisfied. Victorious, maybe; or proud. Happy, he realizes eventually, when Stiles brushes a small kiss against Derek's forehead.

He holds himself up (it's hard to let go of Stiles, but he has to; he tells the wolf inside of him that Stiles is not Derek's, and will want to leave) and shifts his weight so that he won't crush Stiles in the afterglow.

"Yeah, I mean, duh, yes, obviously, good. Unexpected, and, wow, my essay on Steinbeck is going to be more focused on its homoerotic subtext than I had originally intended--"

"You have homework," Derek says, dropping his head to rest on Stiles's shoulder. It's nice to feel Stiles's skin, to feel a body pressed against his, even through their clothes.

"Yeah," Stiles says eventually. "Uh--can my walk of shame include a detour to your bathroom? Because things are getting a little..."

"You're allowed to use the bathroom," Derek says, not moving his head, because he doesn't want to look at Stiles's face when Stiles gets ready to leave him. "But I'm hoping there's not a lot of shame in your walk. You were..."

Stiles laughs again. "Virgins are allowed to be awkward though, right? I mean, no pun intended, but it comes with the territory, so you can't hold my performance against me." He gasps and turns on his side, towards Derek; pressing their bodies against each other almost accidentally. "Oh shit, dude, you didn't even come, did you? I am such an asshole, fuck--"

"You were amazing," Derek says, pushing them apart. "And later I plan on masturbating to the memory of you coming in your pants, saying my name."

"Oh," Stiles says. "I...can I watch? Or should I go? I really don't know the etiquette here, dude. Help me out."

Derek looks him over. His shirt collar's still pulled low, and the unmarked skin there is going to be too much for Derek to resist much longer. He reaches out and tugs it back into place.

"You go to the bathroom and clean up. Grab a pair of my boxers or sweats if you want to change. Then come back out. If you want to finish reading your book here, I'd like that. Otherwise, you can go home. If you want to do this again, on a different day--after you've had time to think about it--I would enjoy that." Stiles is staring at him like he's a stranger, and it's making Derek's skin prickle uncomfortably. "What?"

"You're really nice," Stiles says, in the tone of voice most people would use to say, "You've got spinach stuck in your teeth."

"You tell anyone else, and I tear your leg off and kick you in the head with it."

A smile tugs Stiles's mouth back into its familiar curve. "Cool."

*

It's possible that what they do when Stiles comes back into Derek’s room, dressed in Derek’s clothes, could be classified as cuddling. Derek only really needs the one hand to hold his own book up, and Stiles fits pretty comfortably under his arm when he's slouching against Derek's pillows, and that way Stiles's hand is in easy smacking distance if he tries to mark-up Cora's book again.

Derek’s not sure what to call it, isn’t sure what it means, when he brings Stiles a glass of water and a banana, and Stiles peels his banana upside down and offers a piece of it to Derek.

Eventually The Grapes of Wrath comes to an end, and Stiles’s phone starts buzzing regularly.

Stiles asks for permission before he kisses Derek goodbye. Says, "Can I...?" with his eyes flicking between Derek's mouth and his lips. Derek presses him against the door, kisses him, and only lets Stiles go when he's half-hard again.

"Anytime," Derek says. He holds Stiles against the wall for a moment longer, since it's been a while since he's smiled, and it takes him a few seconds to work up to it. The effort's worth it though, because when he smiles at Stiles, he gets a smile back that's bigger than any that he's seen before.